Never Look Away Read Online Free Page A
don't want to take drugs," Jan said, then quickly added, "I don't want to be somebody I'm not."
After work on the day she called me at the paper, Jan and I drove up together to pick up Ethan at his grandparents' place.
My mother and father, Arlene and Don Harwood, lived in one of the older parts of Promise Falls in a two-story red-brick house that was built in the forties. They didn't buy until the fall of 1971, when my mother was pregnant with me, and they'd had the place ever since. Mom had made some noises about selling it after Dad retired from the city's building department four years ago, arguing that they didn't need all this space, a lawn to cut, a garden to maintain, that they could get along just fine in a condo or an apartment, but Dad wouldn't have any of it. He'd go mad cooped up in a condo. He had his workshop out back in a separate two-car garage, and spent more time in there than in the house, if you didn't count sleeping. He was a relentless putterer, always looking for something to fix or tear down and do all over again. A door or cupboard hinge never had a chance to squeak twice. Dad practically carried a can of WD-40 with him at all times. A stuck window, a dripping tap, a running toilet, a jiggly doorknob--none of them stood a chance in our house. Dad always knew exactly what tool he needed, and could have strolled into his garage blindfolded to lay his hands on it.
"He drives me nuts," Mom would say, "but in forty-two years of marriage I don't think we've had even one mosquito get through a hole in a screen."
Dad's problem was that he couldn't understand why everyone else wasn't as diligent about their duties as he was with his. He was intolerant of other people's mistakes. As a city building inspector, he was a major pain in the ass to every Promise Falls contractor and developer. Behind his back they called him Don Hardass. When he got wind of that, he had some business cards made up with his new nickname.
He found it difficult not to share his wisdom about how to make this a more perfect world, in every respect.
"When you leave the spoons to dry like this without turning them over, the water ends up leaving a mark," he'd say to my mother, holding up one of the offensive items of cutlery.
"Piss off," Arlene would say, and Don would grumble and go out to the garage.
Their squabbling masked a deep love for each other. Dad never forgot a birthday or anniversary or Valentine's Day.
Jan and I knew, when we left Ethan with his grandparents, as we did through the week when we both went to work, that he wasn't going to be exposed to any hazards. No frayed light cords, no poisonous chemicals left where he could get his hands on them, no upturned carpet edges he could run and trip on. And their rates just happened to be more reasonable than any nursery schools in the area.
"Mom called me after you," I said to Jan, who was driving in her Jetta wagon. It was nearly five-thirty. We'd rendezvoused at our house so we could pick up Ethan in one car, together.
Jan looked over, said nothing, figured I'd continue. "She said Dad's really done something over the top this time."
"She say what?"
"No. I guess she wanted to build the suspense. I got hold of Reeves today, asked him about his hotel bill in Florence."
Jan said, without actually sounding all that interested, "How's that story coming?"
"Some woman called me anonymously. She had some good stuff. What I need to know now is how many others on the council are taking bribes or gifts or trips or whatever from this private prison corporation so that they'll give them the nod when the rezoning comes up for a vote."
And you thought all the fun'd be over when Finley dropped out of politics." A reference to our former mayor, whose night with a teenage hooker didn't sit well with his constituents. Maybe, if you were Roman Polanski, you could screw someone a third your age and still win an Oscar, but if you were Randall Finley, it kind of played hell with your
After work on the day she called me at the paper, Jan and I drove up together to pick up Ethan at his grandparents' place.
My mother and father, Arlene and Don Harwood, lived in one of the older parts of Promise Falls in a two-story red-brick house that was built in the forties. They didn't buy until the fall of 1971, when my mother was pregnant with me, and they'd had the place ever since. Mom had made some noises about selling it after Dad retired from the city's building department four years ago, arguing that they didn't need all this space, a lawn to cut, a garden to maintain, that they could get along just fine in a condo or an apartment, but Dad wouldn't have any of it. He'd go mad cooped up in a condo. He had his workshop out back in a separate two-car garage, and spent more time in there than in the house, if you didn't count sleeping. He was a relentless putterer, always looking for something to fix or tear down and do all over again. A door or cupboard hinge never had a chance to squeak twice. Dad practically carried a can of WD-40 with him at all times. A stuck window, a dripping tap, a running toilet, a jiggly doorknob--none of them stood a chance in our house. Dad always knew exactly what tool he needed, and could have strolled into his garage blindfolded to lay his hands on it.
"He drives me nuts," Mom would say, "but in forty-two years of marriage I don't think we've had even one mosquito get through a hole in a screen."
Dad's problem was that he couldn't understand why everyone else wasn't as diligent about their duties as he was with his. He was intolerant of other people's mistakes. As a city building inspector, he was a major pain in the ass to every Promise Falls contractor and developer. Behind his back they called him Don Hardass. When he got wind of that, he had some business cards made up with his new nickname.
He found it difficult not to share his wisdom about how to make this a more perfect world, in every respect.
"When you leave the spoons to dry like this without turning them over, the water ends up leaving a mark," he'd say to my mother, holding up one of the offensive items of cutlery.
"Piss off," Arlene would say, and Don would grumble and go out to the garage.
Their squabbling masked a deep love for each other. Dad never forgot a birthday or anniversary or Valentine's Day.
Jan and I knew, when we left Ethan with his grandparents, as we did through the week when we both went to work, that he wasn't going to be exposed to any hazards. No frayed light cords, no poisonous chemicals left where he could get his hands on them, no upturned carpet edges he could run and trip on. And their rates just happened to be more reasonable than any nursery schools in the area.
"Mom called me after you," I said to Jan, who was driving in her Jetta wagon. It was nearly five-thirty. We'd rendezvoused at our house so we could pick up Ethan in one car, together.
Jan looked over, said nothing, figured I'd continue. "She said Dad's really done something over the top this time."
"She say what?"
"No. I guess she wanted to build the suspense. I got hold of Reeves today, asked him about his hotel bill in Florence."
Jan said, without actually sounding all that interested, "How's that story coming?"
"Some woman called me anonymously. She had some good stuff. What I need to know now is how many others on the council are taking bribes or gifts or trips or whatever from this private prison corporation so that they'll give them the nod when the rezoning comes up for a vote."
And you thought all the fun'd be over when Finley dropped out of politics." A reference to our former mayor, whose night with a teenage hooker didn't sit well with his constituents. Maybe, if you were Roman Polanski, you could screw someone a third your age and still win an Oscar, but if you were Randall Finley, it kind of played hell with your
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